


Here I Come

by soft_decay



Category: Petscop
Genre: Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Marvin is an Asshole, Paul is Care Reborn, Petscop 23, Very Heavy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 07:56:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20690105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_decay/pseuds/soft_decay
Summary: A dark interpretation of what happened to Paul in Petscop 23.





	Here I Come

_ Here _

_ I _

_ Come _

Paul stares at the screen, stupefied.

_ What _

No response. Paul is becoming aware that he is shaking. His controller rattles, threatening to fall from his grasp. Marvin still is silent, which makes the air around him more cold, more acrid in Paul’s throat and his lungs.

“Shit,” the word hisses out of his mouth like the life from a birthday balloon. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, _ shit…” _

The walls are red and smooth. Red and smooth. Marvin is coming. Thirty stab wounds bleeding from Paul’s abdomen, the arms and legs pinned up like calendars, the hair being tugged out one by one, the pain making his eyes water. Crying all over his scratch marks, the salt making them sting anew. Marvin is coming. _ No. No. _Marvin remembers everything. He knows Paul, every muscle and sinew in Paul’s stupid body, and Paul sees and remembers nothing. But Paul knows it’s there, that seething inner layer under his skin threatening to eat through his meat and his bones and his skin; he feels it. He feels it there when he’s playing the game, and now, it’s got ahold of his body like some sort of parasite.

“_No…_” No, no, wait, remember. Say something, remember. _ Maybe he’ll stop if he thinks you remember. _

D as in dog.

Paul’s fucking crying. He’s fucking crying like a four-year-old girl.

A as in apple. 

It’s so slow, he can count ten heartbeats before he presses another button. Fuck him. He can’t even type to save his life. Fuck. Fuck.

D as in…

_ Please. Please. Please. Please - _

The red wall splits open like flesh, and a voice whispers:

“Let everything happen to you.”

—————

Paul can say he tried to escape. If anyone asks. He can say that the moment he saw Marvin standing in the doorway he couldn’t find, he lunged and kicked and hit and screamed, and he tried to get away, and he begged and cried and pushed but Marvin was too strong. Too strong, the way he grabbed Paul’s shoulders and threw him back onto his bed, the way he grabbed Paul by the chin with his dry hands and made Paul look at his face while he pulled down his jeans. 

But he can’t lie to himself. 

“Let everything happen to you.”

That’s exactly what he’s doing. 

Paul remembers having night terrors as a kid. At least, he thinks he does. “Sleep paralysis” is the technical term, at least that’s what Belle told him. Where his body’s asleep but his mind isn’t.

But he always woke up from those after a few hours. He always woke up. 

Marvin hitches Paul’s hips back up like he’s lifting a wheelbarrow. Paul makes a noise. That’s all he can do. 

Has it been hours yet? Days? Paul feels so sick he could puke, but it doesn’t happen, so he just groans and pitches forward sometimes. Marvin smiles whenever Paul does that, as if he thinks Paul is writhing for another reason than complete nausea. Paul wants to die. 

Why can’t he move? Paul hates Marvin’s face, he hates hates hates hates _ hates _ it, how old and disgusting it looks, how Marvin’s eyes are the same color as his, he _ hates _ it. He tries to look away, but Marvin won’t let him. Paul wishes he were blind. Deaf too; he doesn’t want to hear the things Marvin is saying, he doesn’t want to hear the breathing and the grunting and _ anything._

The memories are the worst of it. Brief flashes of sights, smells, and sounds like something from a nightmare, a hazy soup of humiliation and pain and the worst things a person can feel. The parasite’s taking over, foreign, domestic. 

And Marvin feeds it. 

He thumbs Paul’s eyebrows. “You’ve been bad,” he says through heavy breaths. “Better play it right this time, huh?” Paul’s sitting in a chair. It’s not even a bench; it looks like a chair from the dining room. _ Does Daddy even know how to play piano? _She doesn’t want to touch the keys. But she has to. Her brow is smarting again. 

Paul gasps. No. No. That isn’t him. That isn’t him. 

He feels so sick. He arches his neck back and squeezes his eyes shut. 

_ Paul. Pall. Paul. Pall. Paul. Pall. Paul. Pall. _

The bed

rocks under him. 

**Author's Note:**

> “... beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.” 
> 
> \- Rainer Maria Rilke


End file.
